28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Eight

J asmine

I'm bombarded with so much input at once: pounding pain in my head, aching in every muscle, cold all the way to my bones, and the stench of dirt and concrete in my nostrils. It's only after this that I remember those men attacking me and jabbing something in my arm.

I sit up straight from my slumped position, even though the act of sitting upright feels as though someone clobbered me with a baseball bat. It takes another second to realize I'm tied to an old metal folding chair.

"Glad you could join me, Jasmine."

Even though stars are circling my vision, I don't need to see the man talking to me. I'd know Everett Wright's falsely soothing voice anywhere. The only thing that surprises me about this situation is that he's here in person. I would have expected the coward, who threw his power around to intimidate kids, to send another minion to do his dirty work.

I guess I shouldn't be so surprised that he's here in person. He and I have history.

"You were one of my favorites, Jasmine."

Shit. His voice is as oily as I remember it. Unctuous, as though he's your best friend—if your best friend was a snake.

"After all the special attention I used to give you, I'm surprised you would turn on me. Calling for an inquiry and legislation to stop programs like Nature's Edge? Why would you do that when it saved your life?"

Does he expect me to argue with him? To remind him of the facts? Should I tell him that kids whose grades plummeted and who drank some beer and painted their fingernails black shouldn't be sent to what amounted to a prison camp for the better part of three years?

If his goons hadn't removed my phone battery, I guess I could show him a picture of me at eighteen when I escaped his allegedly "therapeutic" program. Although, even with photographic evidence I doubt he'd admit I was emaciated from so many months of reduced rations for trumped-up infractions.

I don't say a word, though. Wright isn't the type of man who tolerates argument, especially from a female.

Now that the white spots have stopped swirling in my vision, I take a moment to look around. I've seen enough TV crime shows to assume this is an abandoned warehouse. You don't need to see more than one or two police procedurals to know that this is where bad guys take their victims when they want to kill them… slowly. I guess the only good news is that three years at Nature's Edge gave me a high pain tolerance.

He's got three henchmen strategically placed behind him. Lord knows how many others are guarding the perimeter.

"Not even a hello, Jasmine? You aren't even a little bit happy to see me?"

It's been a decade since we've spoken, so I forgot how I used to subtly fight back against him. I learned early on how to irritate the bastard.

He used to insist on no eye contact, like a predator demands of his prey. He liked all the petty niceties, the hellos and thank yous, all said in a sweet voice no matter what level of hell he just put you through.

He's pissed and I'm his captive. Now no amount of good behavior will earn me any goodwill. I've raised the stakes so high I won't be able to wheedle or cajole humane treatment from him. I might as well irritate the shit out of him like I used to do when I was under his thumb as an impressionable teen.

"Fuck you, asshole." I pierce him with an eat-shit-and-die stare. To top it off, I flash him a superior smirk. "Miss me?"

A tiny thrill jolts through me at his shocked expression. With all the kids he tortured and abused, he held too much power to face any open hostility.

He raped several of my friends in the program, but somehow I escaped that circle of hell. Perhaps because my dad was rich and had friends in high places. He must not have wanted to risk the wrath of someone in Dad's position.

By how his eyes are raking over me, it sure seems as though he wants to make up for lost time, although I don't know if his expression is more about inflicting his cock on me or inflicting other types of pain.

Being this close to him used to do the oddest things to my body: goosebumps, violent nausea, dry throat. I've got none of those symptoms now. Perhaps believing this will be our last interaction has given me some inner strength.

How have I been awake for five minutes and forgotten about Bold? I've been so focused on this game of cat and mouse with Wright that I forgot I have a mate. A determined wolven who loves me more than life itself. A male who would search the world for me. And I have a pack.

They have to know I'm missing. No matter how busy Bold was today, he promised to call me on the hour, which means he found out I was taken almost immediately after I was snatched.

All I have to do is keep the devil himself occupied until my mate and my pack find me.

"Tell me, Everett." I thrill at the flicker of emotion on his ruddy face at my use of his first name. That behavior would have bought me a month in a cell with no mattress if I were still back at Nature's Edge. "You spent more time with me than almost anyone else at the San Bernardino facility. Why was that?"

Just keep him talking, Jasmine. Bold will find you.

"You haven't figured it out? Smart girl like you couldn't put two and two together? Your daddy was rich and powerful. I wanted to return a compliant young woman to him. Get in his good graces, maybe reap some financial rewards."

Part of me wants to bombard him with a litany of all the ways he hurt me, stole my soul. I'd love to spit at him that it took me years of therapy to regain my mind after the hours of brainwashing at his hands. I won't say that, though. Don't want him to have the satisfaction of knowing just how much havoc he wreaked on my psyche.

"It backfired, asshole. Sorry, not sorry." I mentally pat myself on the back at how I managed to keep my voice level, as though being tied to this chair in an abandoned warehouse is a walk in the park.

Though his lackeys are standing, Wright has been sitting on a discarded metal folding chair a few feet in front of me. Upon my insult, he launches out of his chair and stalks to where I'm sitting. I know what's coming. Instead of letting him see my fear, I glare at him until he backhands me with so much force he splits my lip.

With his face scant inches from mine, he lets me see the real Everett Wright. Though I've glimpsed it a few times before, it's still terrifying to see his devil face. Eyes narrowed, teeth bared, nostrils flaring, he yanks my upper arms as he screams, "You will obey me, you little fucking bitch, or I will delight in watching as my men kill you even slower than I'd planned."

Terror whirls through my body in waves as my sixteen-year-old self returns as though she never left. I feel little, powerless. I'm at this maniac's mercy with no one to help me.